My hands are steady on the wheel. My chest hurts.
Fear is still there, curled tight and watchful, but it’s not driving anymore.
I am.
I pull onto the highway toward the stadium, heart pounding like it’s game day and everything is on the line.
And this time, I’m not staying on the sidelines.
When I get there, Manny is exactly where I expect him to be.
Center of the corridor. Arms crossed. Jaw locked. Black suit like a wall with a pulse.
“Cam,” he says, voice flat. Not welcoming.
The hallway behind him hums with motion. Headsets. Runners. A guitarist laughing too loudly. The thrum of a stadium waking up.
Lila’s world, spinning fast and sharp, and every person in it trained to spot danger.
Including me.
“I’m not here to make this harder,” I say. I stop a few feet away. “I’m here to finish what I started.”
Manny lifts a brow.
“I thought you had finished it,” he says. “You walked away.”
I nod. I don’t argue. I don’t defend myself.
“I know I hurt her,” I say. “But I can’t let her face all of this alone.” My chest tightens, but I keep my voice even.
Behind Manny, Noah appears like he materialized from the drywall. Tablet tucked under his arm. Eyes sharp, measuring liability in real time.
“This isn’t advisable,” Noah says.
“I know,” I say.
Manny glances at Noah, then back to me, his frown growing.
“Look, I’m not asking to be trusted,” I say. “I’m asking for five minutes.”
Manny studies my face. He’s good at this. He’s spent years separating threats from noise.
“What are you going to do in those five minutes?” he asks.
“I have to tell her.” I swallow. “That I love her.”
Noah exhales slowly. Manny doesn’t move.
“And if she says no?” Manny asks.
My answer is immediate.
“Then I leave,” I say. “No fight. No spin. No second angle.”
Silence stretches. Long. Loud.
Somewhere nearby, the crowd roars as the opener finishes. The sound leaks through the walls like weather.
